


FINAL AMERICAN 2002

by erocktion



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: American - Freeform, Blood and Gore, Coca Cola, Death, Galvanized Pepsi, Gen, Intense Violence, Ladder Stacking, Limit Break, McDonald's, Race, Strong Language, Transformation, hard work, rated m for mature, train driving, truck driving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 15:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19748911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erocktion/pseuds/erocktion
Summary: It's about train driving into insanity, working seventeen hour shifts with no breaks, drinking Galvanized Pepsi, getting fired on the spot during your seventeen hour shift, and one Average Joe's journey into becoming the most powerful truck driver America had ever seen. Epic American showdowns, menial labor, watching TV, Blood and Gore, Intense Violence, Strong Language; all await you.RATED M FOR MATURE





	1. Chapter 1

**RATED M FOR MATURE**

****

The entire Coca Cola bar was laughing and cheering, celebrating over their victory on the widescreen TV. There had just been a Train Courtyard Match between two powerful trains representing Coca Cola and Pepsi. Coca Cola, the standing victor, with its CEO Toriel the Coca Cola Bear, had defeated the challenger Pepsi, who came to end Coca Cola's dominance once and for all. The stakes were high; Pepsi was also promoting their new borax flavored Galvanized Pepsi, and on the side of the burning, destroyed Pepsi train, you could see an image of the Pepsi CEO Sans the Pepsi Skeleton weeping over the destruction of the brand. It will be a hard comeback for Pepsi indeed.

And so every Clod in the bar was exploding with masculine victory, with bottles of Coca Cola being cheered with one another and entire Two Liters of Coke being brought out to share with everybody. It was late and raining heavily outside; no one really wanted to go home.

The Clods were the Average Joe's of America. They all had the appearance of Cloud Strife from Final Fantasy 7; spikey, yellow hair, blue eyes, and a purple, sleeveless worker's jumpsuit fitting nicely on their five-and-a-half-foot frame. The only difference was a disfigured face from a variety of undiagnosed mental disabilities. A Clod proudly works menial but masculine jobs; many of the Clods in the bar were cement mixers or ladder stackers, and there were even a few construction workers, which was a highly esteemed American job. Their motto was, "He's got his head down while he works", and they were proud of this fact.

Coke was being downed by Liter in a matter of minutes. The Clods were drinking an entire week's worth of Coca Cola in one sitting, and the bar kept it coming with Two Liter after Two Liter. Every Clod in the building could say that this was one of the happiest moments of their lives.

...Until they noticed a tall man with long grey hair who had just came in from the rain standing ominously at the door, and the bar suddenly became dead silent. All you could hear was the crinkling of the man's huge, dripping McDonald’s bags filling the room with mortal terror.

That man's name was Sarsaparilla. Everyone in the bar knew who he was. Sarsaparilla used to be a train driver; the most powerful and respected American job. Not only that, he was the best train driver the country had ever seen; he could haul freight from Los Angeles to New York City in only an hour. He had been world famous for his long hauls, with many devoted fans studying the art of train driving with much enthusiasm, hoping to one day be like him.

That all changed as Sarsaparilla became more and more jaded and hateful towards humanity. On every single one of his hauls, he would kill someone who foolishly wandered on to his train tracks. Most of those killed by his train were Clods, laughing with soda in their hands not paying attention to where they were walking until it was too late. It would be at its worst during his World Famous Worldwide Televised Worldround Hauls, where he would kill dozens of cameramen, reporters, executive producers, and (especially) Clods who either couldn't get off the train tracks fast enough or simply lacked the thinking to even care. Often times he would be blamed for their deaths, as if he could do anything about it.

Sarsaparilla was a controversial figure, but he didn't mind that. He always thought deaths were to be expected as an unfortunate fact of the job, and that with someone as proficient as him behind the engine a high casualty rate was a given. But as the deaths kept piling on, with Clods dying on his tracks daily, constantly being splattered all over his train, he eventually snapped.

He began to hate Clods with every facet of his soul. He hated their spikey, yellow hair. He hated their laughter. He hated Coca Cola and Pepsi. He hated their lifestyles and their pride in menial labor. He hated the fact that his job served their pathetic lives. But most of all, he hated their absolute mindlessness that got them killed on his tracks thousands of times.

From that day forth, after realizing and declaring his hate, he never drove a train again. He now travels the country, looking for places filled with masses of Clods, so he can exact his hatred and eventually remove Clods from the face of the Earth.

Sarsaparilla had the appearance of Sephiroth from Final Fantasy 7; eight feet tall with green eyes and long, straight grey hair, but with a few sinister differences. He had chiseled, lean muscles and never wore a shirt, only wearing black fitted jeans and train driver boots. His eyes were deeply sunken in with the ovals around them being dark enough to give anyone the feeling of dread, and he had disproportionately long legs, which made him eight feet tall and accentuated his power. At his sides were two massive crinkling brown paper bags of McDonald’s dripping with grease in both of his hands; his weapons of choice.

Every Clod in the bar was staring at Sarsaparilla. Some looked at him with fear; others with pure contempt. Sarsaparilla only stood there with an expression that conveyed hatred of life itself. All the Clods were frozen like animals afraid to die. Everyone knew what was about to happen.

With one swing Sarsaparilla slammed his right bag into the face of the Clod sitting closest to the door, sending teeth, skull fragments, and brain matter flying everywhere and killing him instantly. Using the momentum, he swung his left bag into a line of Clods sitting on bar stools; the bag going right through them and crumpling their mangled torsos together on the end of the bag. He then turned around and spun his arm downwards like a windmill, bringing his right bag down like a hammer crushing the skull of a Clod who had only just opened a bottle of Coca Cola prior to Sarsaparilla walking in.

The sight of the bottle of undrunk, unenjoyed Coca Cola pouring all over the floor as it rolled towards a group of seated Clods enraged them, and they realized that they could not sit there helplessly while Sarsaparilla murdered their friends and coworkers. Those Clods rose up and, armed with empty bottles of Coca Cola, charged at Sarsaparilla. This inspired all the other Clods in the building to take action as well; they equipped themselves with bottles, bar stools, and chairs and began a human wave assault towards Sarsaparilla.

Sarsaparilla, knowing the potential danger he was in, brushed it off with an aura of confidence, retaining his hateful expression. He'd been in this situation many times before, and he knew that any amount of Clods armed with anything less than the most powerful Big Rig ever built couldn't stand a chance against him. As the Clods approached, he began his signature attack. Sarsaparilla was spinning around with his arms outstretched like a T, his bags flying mercilessly through the air, while making his way towards the mass of Clods.

The Clods who met him first didn't stand a chance. The bags slammed through their bodies, completely destroying them and leaving a red pulpy paste behind and to the sides of Sarsaparilla. The bottles, bar stools, and chairs were broken into pieces and served no defense as Sarsaparilla's bags swung through the crowd of Clods. When the Clods further back realized that their weapons were useless, they attempted to dodge the incoming bags, but this was futile as the sheer speed of the bags would make dodging them akin to dodging bullets.

With all the other Clods dead, the last Clod dropped his Coca Cola bottle and fell on his knees to beg for dear life. Sarsaparilla merely glanced down at him for only a moment before bringing the left bag down as hard as he could on to the Clod. The Clod's tearful face collided with a Happy Meal toy of a crying Papyrus the McDonald’s Skeleton from within the bag as he was utterly annihilated, his remains being so viciously splattered everywhere that no one viewing them could possibly consider that they once belonged to a human.

Sarsaparilla stood alone amongst the destruction, coated in blood and breathing heavily, with the sound of dead Clods dripping off his bags echoing throughout the devastated bar. The floor was covered in blood, organs, broken bones, spikey yellow hair, purple jumpsuits and spilled Coca Cola. And so Sarsaparilla, with his job now complete, gripping tightly his faithful McDonald’s bags hanging by his sides, left the bar, to continue his extermination of all Clods.


	2. Chapter 2

Clod Stoff awoke on a tattered, mangy couch in his dingy apartment, his face soaked with his own tears from a drenched pillow. Last night was the Train Courtyard Match between Coca Cola and Pepsi. Clod had no one to watch it with, as his girlfriend just left him and he got fired from his job, with all his coworkers now hating him. So he sat alone in his home on the couch, Galvanized Pepsi in hand, and eyes glued to his small box TV hoping something would finally happen that would turn his luck around.

Pepsi lost that match. In a tearful rage Clod flung himself about while loudly groaning in agony, smashing several holes in his walls and accidentally spilling his Galvanized Pepsi on his sofa. Resigning to his pain, he didn't even bother to clean up the mess and just fell asleep laying on the wet stain, crying into his pillow until he finally passed out.

Things have been looking very down for Clod Stoff. His ex-girlfriend, Mipmap, was a cute girl from the rich part of town who looked like Minnie Mouse except coated in a constant layer of dirt. She thought she had chosen poorly in dating a Money Lv 1 Clod who could only afford staple foods such as Nesquik and Mac N Cheese. Their relationship was not going well, and they finally broke up after a huge argument over Hershey's versus Nesquik. Mipmap's last words to him were, "I don't date no Nesquik eatin' Bitch," after she flushed all of Clod's Nesquik down the toilet before his very eyes. It was a shame too; that tub of Nesquik would have fed Clod for a week, and he has had little to eat since then.

Clod had lost his job as well. He used to be a 32x32 ladder stacker working at a 7/11 downtown. After already downtrodden from the break up and starvation, he made a fatal mistake at work. He accidentally stacked 32x31 ladders. All his fellow Clods immediately noticed the mistake and ganged up on him, shouting profanities, spitting in his face, beating him with ladders, and pouring Coca Cola down his purple jumpsuit because they knew he didn't like it. He'd made mistakes like that on other jobs, and was fired in similar ways, but he had never been fired at such a fragile point in his life.

So Clod was lying there on his stained, disgusting couch, not knowing what to do with his life. He turned on the TV with a tinge of regret, still upset over last night. Flicking through the channels, he stopped on a local news channel with the headline, "66 DEAD NO SURVIVORS SARSAPARILLA STRIKES AGAIN".

Sarsaparilla was often on the news, always in reports of him killing dozens or hundreds of Clods at various locations across the United States. Clod always turned off the TV or escaped the room in utter fear to avoid watching these newscasts, but unusually this time, even though this was in his town, he continued to watch; more curious than horrified, "YESTERDAY AT 9:00 PM SARSAPARILLA ENTERED THE COCA COLA BAR ON BIG STREET IN RANCHTOWN. HE MURDERED EVERY SINGLE CLOD IN THE BAR LEAVING NONE SPARED. HIS LOCATION IS NOW UNKNOWN BUT HE IS PRESUMED TO STILL BE IN RANCHTOWN."

"gOOd," said Clod in his loud, slurred voice that every Clod had, "i DONt liKE COKE." He felt an inner pain saying that sentence, knowing he was cursing the deaths of potential coworkers. Yes, he was still bitter, but they were Clods, and so was he. Clod's father was a Clod who worked in a Kraft Singles factory single-handedly stacking boxes 128x128 daily, and his grandfather, too, was a Clod, who immigrated from Swedish Switzerland to work in the Glass Mines. There was nothing wrong with good ol' hard work, and realizing this, Clod gained the energy to get off the couch and begin his day.

His apartment was nothing more than a small living room with one large window facing the west, a closet, a 'kitchen area' with only a counter and a fridge, and a bathroom. The evening sun peered through the cracks of the window's blinds, filling the room with an orange haze. Clod couldn't tell time very well, but he still knew he had slept for way too long. The radio had been left on from last night, now playing "Spiders" by System of a Down as a MIDI file with a Final Fantasy 7 soundfont. The drab carpet was covered in hundreds of stains from every Clod that lived there before, punctuated by the new and old holes in the brick colored walls.

Clod had little in the way of furnishings. There was only his beat-up couch, his CRT television supported by a stack of garbage, a small radio in the corner that played nothing but airwave MIDIs, a yellow, dirty refrigerator with almost nothing in it, and a chair that sat unused in a corner facing the wall. On the counter was a single red Solo cup that had been used dozens of times, a spoon for consuming Nesquik, and a mini oven which he would use to make Mac N Cheese, if he had any. Empty Galvanized Pepsi bottles, grocery bags, and dirty purple jumpsuits littered the floor. Inside the closet was a pile of dirty underwear mixed in with a pile of clean underwear, as well as a single clean jumpsuit.

Clod opened his fridge, desperate for food. Inside there was nothing but a single bottle of Shrek green ketchup. Clod said with a blank expression, "iT HaSS toO dOOO," and added it to his inventory. The empty Galvanized Pepsi bottle from last night was now filled with Clod's torment; Clod could sense this as he picked the bottle up and equipped it as a weapon.

The bathroom contained the only sink in the apartment, and was an absolutely vile mess with every disgusting nook and cranny offering to give you a debilitating disease; Clod hardly minded this and had no plans to clean it up anyways. After taking a brief yet revolting shower with no soap, he equipped a random pair of underwear and his last clean jumpsuit, and walked out into the sunset to look for work.

Ranchtown was a small city in the western part of the United States with a population of around forty thousand people. The town was built around a single road, Big Street, which went through the entire city; all the other roads linked back to it. Clods were the majority of people in the town; the rest being nondescript noise pattern women and a few actual individuals. Almost all of the stores were on Big Street, and most of the work was downtown, with Ranchtown's main industries being cement mixing and ladder stacking. Coca Cola was the dominate soda in Ranchtown, with there being a Coca Cola factory on the outskirts of town where some of the most prestigious Clods worked. The pride of the city, however, was in the newly built train station downtown and in the famous truck stop, where truckers parked their trucks unattended in safety for some R&R after a long haul.

Finding work in Ranchtown was a simple affair; Clod had to get into a random encounter with an interviewer at any of the stores on Big Street. This is easier said than done, however. Clod had been through many days of running around Wal-Marts, McDonald's, and other stores encountering nothing but employees and confused customers. It was never apparent which stores would have better chances for an interviewer, so finding a job was a matter of perseverance and luck.

Nevertheless, Clod was determined. The first spot he went to was the 7/11 he was fired from last week. He instantly encountered a group of former coworker Clods armed with ladders, whom he successfully escaped battle from. Fearing death, he immediately left the building and began to run around the parking lot nearby, hoping to get a job in cart pushing or car washing. After 30 minutes, all that he encountered was a western man and his son, with the boy asking his father, "Daddy, daddy, what's your job?" In his deep western accent, the man bellowed, "LADDER STACKIN', BOI," and spat on the ground.

The next store he went to was the Wal-Mart he had been trying at for the last week. While running back and forth down the soda aisle, he noticed a Clod staring hesitantly at the bottles of Galvanized Pepsi. Clod approached him and asked, "heYY WhAaT STare AT PEPSI?"

The Clod turned, "huuUUUHHH?????"

"huuHHHNNNN??????"

"WHAAAAAAAAAATTTTT??????"

"whAT sTARE AT PEPSI???"

The Clod began to proclaim, "PEPSI is LOSer. i deFEAAAT PEPsi NOWw. smASH all BOTTLES and END PEPSI."

With a steady hand, Clod drew his empty Galvanized Pepsi bottle, "yooOOUUU DARE?!?!" The hostile Clod noticed the bottle, made a face of pure anger, and flung himself toward Clod.

The battle began. The enraged Clod ran directly into the arc of Clod's swing, and Clod landed the first blow to the other Clod's face, doing a critical hit. Still this was not enough to incapacitate the Clod, as he was quite strong from not starving, and after dodging an elbow to the throat Clod realized he would need to do a great deal of damage soon in order to win the fight. Clod took a punch to the stomach, and with that, his Limit had Broken. Summoning energy, the bottle in his hand started to glow blue as Megalovania in a Final Fantasy 7 soundfont played throughout the aisle. With the power of Sans the Pepsi Skeleton Clod struck the enemy Clod down and won the battle.

The defeated Clod laid motionless on the supermarket tile as Clod continued to run up and down the aisle searching for an interviewer. After a bit, Clod doubled over in pain, his health low from the battle. He took just a step forwards and the room began to spin with the colors blurring. This was it. Finally, Clod had gotten an interview.

The room shifted to a greyish white void, with a Clod interviewer sitting behind an old and disgusting wooden desk with a folding chair in front of it. He stared blankly towards the empty space where Clod was clutching himself in agony. Clod knew he was in no shape to do the interview, so he opened up his inventory to get out the last of his food: the Shrek green ketchup. His pride returned as he squirted the ketchup into his mouth with the interviewer cheering him on in the background. With the final few squirts, his health was full.

Clod walked forwards and took a seat, and he and the interviewer stared through each other for a bit. Eventually, the interviewer broke the silence.

"you wAnt whAT joBB??"

"huuUUHHHnn?????"

Clod couldn't see the interviewer's face well while staring through him, but he could still hear his tone of annoyance, "YA THA THING BOUT WORKIN' REEEAL LIFE REEEALITY LIFE IS U GOTTA GO TIL U JUST CAN'T STAND NO MORE SO FALL ASLEEP INStead."

"oKAAAAYY!!!!!"

"huuUUUHHHH?!?!?!"

"whhAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT???????"

"yOU WANT wHAT JOB?!?!"

"YAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!"

"OKAY but quesTION."

"yaa?????"

"COKE or PEPSI."

Clod's heart sank. This was the definitive question of any interview, and failure to correctly choose what was essentially a coin toss would mean death by starvation. He stopped staring off into the distance and studied the interviewing Clod carefully, trying to determine if he was a Coke or Galvanized Pepsi man. But he could not bring himself to tell a potential lie, and as the feeling in his throat of primal brand loyalty reached its peak, he shouted:

"PEPSI!!!!!"

Clod desperately wanted to cover his mouth, but with all of his willpower refused to, and positioned himself in such a way that the interviewer couldn't see his heart pounding out of his chest. When Clod gained the courage to look back up, to his assurance, the interviewer's blank face slowly turned into a smile.

"YAAAAAA PEPSI!!!!!!"

Clod smiled back with wrenching joy, "YAAAA!!!!!!"

"ONLY PEPSI WORKIN' HERE!!!!!!!!!!"

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"GET START NOW?????????"

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The two returned to the Walmart, and were in the back of the store, with an eerie door in front of them. Past the door, the interviewer led Clod into Walmart's open secret: a 12 square mile plane in non-Euclidean space of nothing but pure white supermarket tile. Far in the distance Clod saw eleven other Clods with their heads down sweeping the floor. Nothing could be heard but mild shuffling and the faint whistling of Korn MIDIs.

"OKAY sTICK to yoUR miLe," said the interviewer as he handed Clod a pushbroom, "ALSO im boss nOW."

"OKAAYYY!!!!!!"

Clod turned to make a final confirmation, but the interviewer was gone. Now it was just Clod, his broom, and a square mile of floor to sweep. He equipped the broom, put his head down, and went to work.


	3. Chapter 3

One week later...

Clod's life was very much back on track. Although still at Money Lv 1, he had a decent job, friendly coworkers he would hang out with, and was no longer dying of starvation. Every afternoon he awoke with a smile on his face, ready for a new days work. There was nothing else like sweeping miles of floor with your comrades and then going home to watch TV while drinking an ice cold bottle of Galvanized Pepsi. He had even gotten a Walkman so he could listen to the Final Fantasy 7 battle theme on repeat for ten hours straight while on his shift.

His apartment was looking much better as well. The holes in his walls were somewhat taped up, and while the trash was still present, there were at least paths to walk through it. In the fridge sat a tub of Nesquik, with the Nesquik spoon planted firmly in it. Empty bowls of Mac N Cheese were piled up by the TV, and a modest row of empty Galvanized Pepsi bottles were lined against the couch. He happened to wash his clothes at a laundromat, and even sorted them properly in his closet. The bathroom, however, remained absolutely disgusting.

The setting sun shone meekly through the blinds, obscured by a large cloud. The television was playing a hyperstimulating color blast commercial of Sans gulping down a bottle of cement flavored Galvanized Pepsi to the amazement of thousands of Clods. After that came a commercial of Toriel gingerly sitting down with a Clod's family to eat dinner and watch TV while drinking Coca Cola. The radio was blasting a MIDI of Last Resort by Papa Roach in a Final Fantasy 7 soundfont.

And so Clod stepped out into the sunset, to walk to work. Knowing that a random encounter could happen at any moment, he carried his pushbroom wherever he went, to fend off potential foes.

The smell of burning plastic permeated the air, hitting Clod like a truck driver flooring his gas pedal and making him gag; nevertheless he continued. As he approached Big Street, the smell grew even worse, and he began to hear a horrible cacophony: screams of complete agony, women and children crying, and an orchestra of hundreds of cars all blaring their alarms.

With his purple jumpsuit covering his face, Clod finally saw the cause of this commotion. Mile after mile of crashed cars flooded Big Street as far as the eye could see. Dozens of them were on fire, with firefighter Clods rushing frantically to put the fires out and save the Clods trapped inside. The street with absolutely packed with people: news reporters, grieving family members, and bystanding Clods who were on their breaks. There was no way Clod could get through them, and he wasn't just going to give up, go home and wait for it to despawn; starvation was not an option. He couldn't get a taxi, either; those were for Money Lv 5 Clods. So despite not knowing another way to work, he wandered the back streets of Ranchtown, hoping to find one.

The streets were completely desolate, and nothing could be heard except for the fluttering of several Snickers wrappers in the wind; Clod assumed everyone was at the pile-up or at work. After a few more minutes of walking, he stepped in front of an alleyway from which he could hear faint, ominous talking. Clod sensed an existential dread from within the alleyway, and drawing his trusty pushbroom, he walked inside with a look of hard determination on his face.

The alleyway grew darker, the talking became louder, and the existential dread was nearing it's Limit. Trying to walk quietly with his heart beating out of his chest, Clod tip toed around a corner, and saw a faint blue light glowing several yards away. He stepped towards it, and then he noticed the silhouette of a warped, black mass in front of the light, and stopped right in his tracks. He stood like a deer in headlights, and the talking was now loud and clear.

"54 DEAD 113 INJURED IN RANCHTOWN PILE-UP." It was a news report, and the glowing light was from a television. "AT AROUND 6 PM ON BIG STREET THERE WAS A 1000 CAR PILE-UP BLOCKING OFF ALL ACCESS OF BIG STREET FOR ALL OF RANCHTOWN. WITNESSES SAY THE PILE-UP BEGAN WHEN A DRIVER SWERVED TO AVOID A MCDONALD'S BAG THROWN AT THEM FROM THE TOP OF A BUILDING. INJURIES AND DEATHS ARE STILL BEING COUNTED AS THE STORY DEVELOPS."

"Aww hell yea! The plan worked great!" said a young teen's voice from near the television set.

"Dayum straight!" said a deep voice.

"Jus' like I knew it would." rumbled an even deeper, solemn voice behind the TV.

The young man spoke again, "Sarsaparilla, you're the greatest!"

That accursed name struck an animalistic fear deep into Clod, and with the fact that Sarsaparilla himself could be behind the TV, the existential dread's Limit had Broken. Unable to control himself, Clod yelled as loud as he could:

"HUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!?"

The television turned off in an instant. The black mass turned and shifted, and the sun began to peer into the alleyway, revealing a dozen pairs of glimmering, connected green eyes all gazing at Clod. The only sound that could be heard was the crinkling of many, many McDonald's bags.

Clod backed off slowly, firmly wielding his pushbroom in both hands as the mass warped and approached him. A dozen sunglass shaped eyes walked in unison, their steps resonating throughout the alleyway as their bags crinkled closer. The sun, then, fully illuminated the scene; the mass gained definition and Clod could see those who he was up against.

Every single one of them was a young African American man emulating Sarsaparilla. They were of varying heights and builds, but all of them wore Sarsaparilla's outfit: no shirt, lean muscles, black jeans, train driver boots, and two massive, dripping, heaving bags of McDonald's gripped tightly in both hands. Their natural curly hair been grown out, straightened, and dyed grey, and to cover their brown eyes, they wore reflective green-tinted wrap-around sunglasses that glistened brightly. They all had lips that were puckered into a perpetual open mouth sneer, with breath that reeked of Hi-C and french fries.

Clod could only step back from their approach, pointing his pushbroom in their direction to show that he would defend himself. He stepped back once more, and was stopped right in his tracks, with the crinkle of a bag and the booming voice of a large Black Sarsaparilla right behind him speaking into his ear, "Where you goin' Clod?" Clod was completely surrounded, and could only clench his pushbroom in anticipation of the inevitable attack.

With their muscles flexing, and their bags heaving, they inched closer, preparing for a Group One Shot Kill with their bags. Clod was preparing to do a desperate pushbroom spin attack in what would be a near futile attempt to survive. All of the Black Sarsaparillas were ready, priming their bags, winding up their arms, and crinkling as loud as possible for the killing blow.

...Until from where the TV was spoke that solemn voice, "No. Not yet."

The Black Sarsaparillas in front of Clod turned back and spoke in unison, "But Mistah' Pibb!"

"No buts."

The group grumbled amongst themselves, and Clod breathed a sigh of relief as the ring around him loosened. It wouldn't last long, though; the man with the solemn voice then stepped into the ring, and Clod gulped.

Mr. Pibb was a giant, and was easily the strongest of the Black Sarsaparillas. Standing at seven and a half feet tall with huge, ripped muscles and legs actually proportional to his massive body, his mere appearance could strike fear into the heart of any Clod. Aside from the usual Sarsaparilla outfit, he had a large, lime green afro, with a lime green goatee pairing well with his bright green eyes on his small, scrunched up face. His facial structure was chiseled to perfection; it made it very clear that if he didn't have his bags, he could sever limbs and decapitate heads with his jawline alone. The bags by his sides hung heavily, gripped with a finesse only second to Sarsaparilla himself.

He stood amongst the group like a monolith; his huge pecs swaying valiantly with his bags. Clod barely restrained himself from weeping in terror at the prospect of fighting this man. Mr. Pibb just stared through him, taking only a second to determine what Clod was thinking based on Clod's body language before saying, "Ya think I'd botha' fightin' ah weaklin' like ya? I gotta group ta' lead." He turned to the group, and said, "Yo newbie! Dis yo initiation! Give dis Clod da' death he deserves, an' you'll be ah full-fledged Black Sarsaparilla."

A small, young teen Black Sarsaparilla stepped forwards, flexing his bags before saying, "Aww yea! Easy peasy lemon squeezy!" He couldn't have been older than fourteen, and with the way he handled his bags, it was obvious he was inexperienced. Clod raised his pushbroom in a battle stance, Mr. Pibb slung a boom box over his shoulder to blast the Final Fantasy 7 battle theme in a fresh urban hip-hop soundfont, and the fight began.

The youth charged Clod, swinging his bags over and under his head like a windmill all the way. Clod stood his ground and held his pushbroom above himself to block the blow. It was highly effective; the teen recoiled after the blow, and Clod struck back with a brush to the face. Spinning around from the attack, the Black Sarsaparilla had a devious idea: he was going to attempt Sarsaparilla's signature move and eliminate Clod with incredible precision.

He revved up, stretched out his arms in a T pose, and began spinning around while walking towards Clod. Clod had only a moment to react, but in that time, he discovered the attack's critical weakness. Since the teen was spinning around, he would only be attacking what was at the level of his torso, which meant his legs were undefended. Secondly, Clod wielded a pushbroom; a highly effective long ranged melee weapon. Thinking quickly, Clod hooked the pushbroom's brush behind the youth's leg and tripped him, causing him to stumble flat onto his face with his feet resting in front of Clod.

What followed was the most pitiful sight the Black Sarsaparillas had ever seen. Clod put his broom at the teen's feet, and pushed forwards into him. The youth was being swept into like a tube of toothpaste, leaving absolutely nothing remaining as his legs simply disappeared behind the brush. The kid could only get out a strained, "FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" until the broom overtook his head and the scream of agony stopped as he was swept out of existence.

The boom box stopped. All the Black Sarsaparillas were now trembling with disgust, holding themselves back from throwing up their Hi-C and french fries after what they just saw, with the exception of Mr. Pibb. He stood where he was with a look of pure rage on his clenched face, grinding his teeth so loudly to the point where the other Black Sarsaparillas were looking at him in fear, hoping he would stop before he creates a giant shockwave that would kill all of them in the resulting Gum Blast. Finally, the grinding ended, and Mr. Pibb put a finger to the bridge of his nose, took a deep breathe, gazed through Clod, and said:

"Alright. Kill him."

Mr. Pibb looked on as the rest of his group swarmed Clod without any hesitation. Now was the time, Clod thought, as the sheer gravity of the situation triggered his Limit Break. He slammed his brush into the ground and executed a spectacular pushbroom pole vault, flying over the heads of all the Black Sarsaparillas. Mr. Pibb could only stare in disbelief as Clod ran out of the alleyway, before he composed himself and shouted to the others, "Git dat muthafucka!"

Clod ran for his life, with a dozen men armed with McDonald's bags in both hands chasing after him through the back streets of Ranchtown. Not a soul was around to help him as his legs carried him as fast as they could. He ran aimlessly for block after block, his pursuers following close behind and never losing distance on him. Eventually, he reached the famous truck stop at the edge of town, and made his way towards the trucks, hoping he could escape within the maze of big rigs.

A feeling of deep, inner power overcame Clod as he approached the trucks, their presence summoning an energy within him. It was something he had never felt before; it was as if the trucks were calling him, beckoning him to ride in their driver's seats high above the road. Clod grasped this intuitively, and ran towards the door of the nearest truck. He had to drive.

Whether the truck's door was locked or not, it did not matter; it opened on its own volition for Clod. He flung himself into the driver's seat, and began to heat up the diesel engine without even needing a key in the ignition. The Black Sarsaparillas slammed on the semi with their bags, trying to bust in while Clod gave them a confident glare. With absolutely no key, Clod floored the clutch, set the truck into neutral, and started the engine.

The Black Sarsaparillas' jaws dropped when they felt the engine rev up near them. Clods driving trucks was something completely unheard of; the most a Clod was expected to drive was a car, or rarely construction vehicles. So, they rationalized it as some sort of fluke. Maybe this Clod only knew how to start the truck, they thought. Maybe there was a key in the cabin and Clod was just starting the truck to scare them off. Maybe the truck even started itself.

...Until Clod released the parking brake, shifted into reverse, and began rolling out of the lot. In a panic, the Black Sarsaparillas fled, clutching their bags tightly all the way. Even Mr. Pibb didn't know what to make of it and called for the others to retreat. Clod now faced the group; gripping the steering wheel with a snarl on his face, he pressed on the gas. He was right on the Black Sarsaparillas' tail, and began shifting into gear. His pursuers were now the pursued.

The group split up and ran diagonally away from the truck to avoid being hit. All of the Black Sarsaparillas managed to escape, except for one, who was still running in front of the big rig. Clod merely shifted into higher gears; there was no way a man could out run a truck. The man let out a desperate yell as he was splattered by the truck, the Black Sarsaparilla being crushed underneath the wheels and mangled into human hamburger to complement his Hi-C and french fries.

For the first time in his life, Clod felt true power and purpose. In his exhilaration he drove around the truck stop, testing out the truck's all 60 gears. He was gaining speed quickly, and at the 20th gear he was already going 120 mph in the parking lot. A Clod on his lunch break happened to be sitting by, who just got done eating ten slices of Kraft Singles before he saw Clod drive by. The Clod couldn't believe what he saw, and jumped up and down shouting, "CLOD DRIVIN' A TRUCK! CLOD DRIVIN' A TRUCK!" Clods then started pouring out of every building nearby and formed a crowd to see the spectacle.

Clod blazed to the crowd at 150 mph, stopped on a dime in front of them, and revved the engine loudly. The Clods cheered with the might of one hundred masculine workers as Clod did figure-eights in the parking lot at 200 mph. A few even passed out in excitement and disbelief as Clod began drifting, doing donuts before an unorganized crowd at 300 mph, and that was just in the 35th gear. That was nothing, though; Clod stopped the truck instantly, went into reverse, and shifted into negative gears before writing "CLOD" by burning out the tires on the asphalt, backwards.

Hours passed as Clod continued to drive the truck around the lot, attracting Clods, news reporters, and even his ex-girlfriend Mipmap. She wanted to get back with Clod now that he had trucking powers, but he would have none of it. Clod burned out the tires right in front of her, blasting her with molten rubber until she was completely tarred black, before running her over and flattening her into a still conscious piece of asphalt cemented permanently in the road. No one stopped him.

**-**  
  
The next day, Clod acquired his trucking license, and was now a bona fide Clod trucker; the first of his kind. He even had his own truck: the CLODDDDDDDDD5000, that had a purple coat of paint with yellow fire decals, eighteen wheels, eighty gears, and eight hundred cylinders. Now that he was a trucker, his Money Lv had raised to 40, which guaranteed a giant, empty mansion that he could live in alone, but he chose to live in his big rig working seventeen hour shifts with no breaks. His primary exports were stacks of ladders, and his primary imports were split between processed cheese and styrofoam. Every day he would awake in his truck at sunset, put his head down, and go to work, trucking all night long into the early afternoon while staring into his lap. Life was good for Clod.


	4. Chapter 4

Gristle awoke on his orange soda themed bed in his parents' house, unfazed by the large TV in his room that had been blasting Nickelodeon at full volume all night long. Already dressed in his unwashed orange shirt and yellow pants, and even his orange skating helmet, knee and elbow pads and Nikes, he just had to wipe the massive amounts of crust from his blue eyes before putting on his bright green framed sunglasses. His stomach groaning loudly, he left his room without turning the TV off or even down to eat his typical breakfast.

His parents had been gone for ages; one day Gristle woke up alone in his house, decided not to go to school, and his life had been like that ever since. With no parental authority and a seemingly unlimited amount of funds on the Money card left at the house, he had total freedom to pursue his adolescence.

He opened his cabinet to be greeted by the motherload of fruit flavored candy and fruit flavored snacks that he had bought yesterday. That wasn't what was for breakfast though; after filling his pockets with sugary garbage he grabbed the single non-fruity candy he had: a giant bag of M&M's. After putting it down on the trash-littered counter, he then got out the only thing that wasn't fruit flavored soda from his fridge: the milk. He made an awesome bowl of M&M's&Milk, which he spooned into his mouth quickly and gulped down like a dog. And yes he drank the milk.

At the door was his trusty skateboard, which had a badass electrical orange, yellow, and green design on it. Gristle stopped and looked down, staring intently and lovingly at his Nerds Rope lying on the floor. He gently picked it up, tucked it into his pocket, and set about on his daily routine: skating around Ranchtown as fast as possible while grunting a strained, "HHNNNNN, HHHHNNNNNNN."

It had only been ten seconds of riding before Gristle spotted a young girl playing by herself at a park. With no hesitation he skated right up to her, Nerds Rope in hand and a look of demented glee showing through his strained, "HHNNNNNN", and beat the shit out of her with Nerds Rope. The girl curled into the fetal position as Gristle circled around her on his skateboard, whipping her with Nerds Rope and with no mercy, while grunting the entire time. Gristle did not stop until she had lost consciousness and pissed herself, and once she did Gristle simply skated away chewing on Skittles as if nothing had happened.

Nothing could stop Gristle as he terrorized all the little boys and girls of Ranchtown, daily. He found a little Clod mixing up dirt as if it was cement in a front yard, and soon the Clod had reflexively mixed himself into the dirt in an attempt to escape Nerds Rope induced torment, until the father Clod came out with a shovel and scared off Gristle, who merely skated away with no consequence.

Gristle continued abusing any child he saw for hours, always whipping them with Nerds Rope until they were passed out and soaked in their own urine or Gristle had been chased away. Even if they were with an adult, he always made sure to get at least one extremely painful hit on them by flying by on his skateboard as fast as he could and therefore swinging the Nerds Rope at maximum speed for maximum damage.

Eventually, Gristle had stumbled upon a kindergarten, and he jumped right over the playground fence on his skateboard while swinging his Nerds Rope above his head. He skated over to the roundabout and circled around it in the opposite direction that it was spinning, smacking the children with his Nerds Rope so hard that they instantly became unconscious and fell off the roundabout. Soon he had forced the kids to make a line for the slide, so he could whip them in the face as hard as he could when they were forced down the slide by the kid after them. After he hit every child in the face at least three times, the teachers finally noticed and actually did something. Gristle was chased off by every single teacher on campus yet remained cool and collected as he ate Sour Patch Kids and escaped the angry mob.

By the time the teachers were long gone, Gristle was on Big Street, in the parking lot of the Domino's Pizza ran by Jak and Daxter. From a distance he watched the two work through the store's window; Daxter took the orders, while Jak relentlessly made pizza. Several Clods were inside, giving their orders and then seating themselves to silently stare at the walls while awaiting their pizza.

Gristle stood in a trance, mouthbreathing and trembling, as he gazed at Daxter working the counter. Daxter was walking back and forth on the counter, between the register and the Clod customers, in an agitated, bouncy manner. His soft paws stamped on the glass countertop, and his thick tail thumped hard against the glass; both unheard through the window. Gristle couldn't take it. His neck was straining and his rotten teeth were grinding as he groaned a strenuous, "hhhhnnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN." He clenched his teeth, almost cracking the enamel, exhaled forcefully through them, and continued to breathe through his teeth as he walked into the Domino's. He needed it.

He entered the Domino's, and slowly skated up to the counter past the seated Clods. Daxter was too busy working the register to notice, until Gristle was right next to him. Daxter wasn't even looking at him, and said, "Yea what can I get cha'?" Gristle didn't speak; he only panted heavily and shuddered in ecstasy. Daxter became impatient, glanced at him in annoyance, and froze in fear.

Time stopped for Daxter. Gristle had a demonic smile on his face, his whole body shaking as he looked down at Daxter. His rotten teeth were showing, with the stench of death he would have inflicted unto Daxter being masked by the multiple layers of multi-colored candy coating his teeth and gums. The Nerds Rope was held in both of his hands, and he snapped it together like a belt, the crack being the only sound Daxter heard in that moment. Daxter gulped.

Nerds Rope came flying at Daxter. Gristle whipped him with an intensity never seen before, and ecstatically wheezed while doing it. Daxter could do nothing but spasm in pain and scream for Jak, only for the pleading to be stopped by Gristle specifically targeting his throat and face. He was in the fetal position with his hands covering his face when he stretched his head out to yell once more for Jak; the Nerds Rope went right into his mouth, hit the back of his throat, and made him retch. His breathless and bruised body laid crumpled on the counter, lying in a puddle of urine. Gristle continued to whip him.

The Clods were still staring at the walls, sitting unflinchingly, even as the sound of dropped pizza pans rang through the store as Jak burst out of the kitchen to annihilate Gristle. Gristle immediately turned and skated out the door, with Jak right behind him punching forwards to catch up. While in pursuit, Jak accidentally punched a Clod who just walked in and wanted to order some pizza for his children. The Clod let out a horrifying scream at the top of his lungs as he hunched backwards in extreme agony, but this would last for merely a fraction of a second before every atom in his body was split into individual particles which quickly disintegrated, rendering the Clod into nothing more than photons of purple jumpsuit colored light that soon faded into oblivion, with the last remnant of his existence being his scream that echoed throughout the Domino's before it finally grew quiet and died.

Gristle piled a handful of Jolly Ranchers into his mouth as he skated away down Big Street, his total existence being threatened by Jak punching after him. Gristle was getting away, so Jak started roll jumping frantically, attaining his max speed. They ended up at a crosswalk; Gristle weaved through a maze of cars, while Jak's maniacal rolling was guided by pure anger. Jak was near Gristle and had to land just one roll jump to remove him from the universe. Gristle jumped onto a car and used it like a ramp to jump over a chain-link fence and into a construction site. Jak followed suit, and was mere feet behind him, however, in his tumbling and visceral rage he didn't see what Gristle had planned. Gristle turned in the air, and grinded on the fence, perpendicular to Jak, as Jak flung over the fence and into a bottomless pit. Jak yelled and flailed his limbs as he fell, gazing into the abyss, and the abyss gazed back with a pair of green framed sunglasses.

Gristle grinded until the fence ended, at which point he jumped off into an alley between several tall buildings. The numerous trash cans, dumpsters, and piles of refuse served as equipment for him to bounce off as he turned the alley into his personal Ultimate Half-pipe. He rode along the walls, suspended in the air by sheer speed, and did massive ollies between the buildings. A ridiculous kickflip sent him flying upside down with no control until he grinded off the gutters above him, while still upside down and skating at 30 mph. When the exit of the alley came near, he kicked off the gutter, breaking it, and landed on the ground, squatting on his board with immense exhilaration as he was about to leave the alley.

...But then he had to stop. Gristle went from 30 mph to 0 instantly, as if frozen in time. He stared ahead at a group of long-haired men, and grinned as he watched.

The Black Sarsaparillas had gathered in a hidden plaza deep into Ranchtown. Gristle saw their bags, and he licked his lips, shuddering, knowing he had to get closer. To find out. Time resumed around Gristle, allowing him to speed forwards in a fraction of a second before it froze again, putting him in a perfect position to see Mr. Pibb giving an address.

"Aight, bomb's set. Only a matta' ah' time befo' dat' Coca Cola factory goes sky high." All the other Black Sarsaparillas heaved their bags and hollered affirmations in unison. They and Mr. Pibb seemed to be surrounding someone unseen from where Gristle was squatting. He still needed to get closer; he had to know, he had to see. He had to find out. Time unfroze again, and with those milliseconds of travelling before it stopped again, he found out.

There he was. The ultimate Nerds Rope victim. Gristle had only seen him on TV before, and he slapped his Nerds Rope against the screen every time he was on. Sarsaparilla towered among his men, his titanic, throbbing, dripping bags sagged deep next to his spindling legs. The bags pulsated and heaved, rising themselves up and ruffling against his grip, as if they were breathing, and then descending as deep as they could possibly go with a long, sensuous crinkle.

Gristle vibrated in place, taking advantage of the apparent temporal distortion to achieve maximum anticipatory pleasure. His perception of reality slowed as the bags undulated and trembled, while fluttering in multiple directions as something pounded from within. Sarsaparilla stood unnoticing, his voluptuous bags throbbing harder and harder, pounding faster and faster, until they jolted into his clenched hands and engulfed them as the bags twitched in climax. At last, a Happy Meal toy of Papyrus the McDonald's Skeleton bulged out from a bag and wept against the brown paper. He gaped his wailing mouth, and grease spurted from the engorged bag, splattering and bubbling on the ground.

That was it. Time could no longer contain Gristle, and he was shot forwards. A Gristle colored blur appeared behind Sarsaparilla and it whipped him on the ass with Nerds Rope. Sarsaparilla folded over, with the air knocked out of him. He kneeled and gasped for breath while the horrendous charlie horse twisted, forcing him to lie down and curl into a comfortable position. Then he saw Gristle standing over him, grunting in taunting celebration and flexing his Nerds Rope.

Gristle never saw the look on Sarsaparilla's face as he stood above him; the look of a hatred and humiliation beyond what any expression could convey; the emotions he felt not showing, but emanating from his very soul and projected unto others, his visage being the means of connection into what would have been a mortified Gristle.

The Black Sarsaparillas were awestruck, and had no idea what to do in response to their leader being under attack. But Mr. Pibb stepped through the crowd and looked down upon Gristle, snarling and tightening his bags. Gristle popped a handful of Skittles into his mouth and sped off, with Mr. Pibb and the rest of the Black Sarsaparillas chasing after him. They were not fast enough, however; Gristle skated back into the alley from which he came, and once again bounced off everything that was in it, leaving the Black Sarsaparillas far behind and stuck within a tornado of trash.

Gristle was back on Big Street, and while skating around randomly amidst the cars and the Clods, he thought of a plan. He needed to whip Sarsaparilla's ass with Nerds Rope; it was a desire he had now experienced and could not suppress. He knew that the Black Sarsaparillas had planted a bomb at the Coca Cola factory on the outskirts of town, and that there was one other person who had successfully dealt with them before and might be willing to help. Nothing else mattered now; he had to get that ass.

He rode over to the 7/11 downtown, where he knew he would find Clod with his truck parked. Clod was receiving a new haul of stacks of ladders, pushed into his semi-trailer by a group of jealous former coworkers. He was sitting at the wheel when Gristle came up.

"Clod." Gristle's voice was unnaturally deep for a fifteen-year-old, and it sounded almost like he was faking it.

Clod turned, "huuUUUHHH?????"

"It's about Sarsaparilla."

"whhhhaaaaaaAAATTTT???"

"He and his gang, they're gonna blow up the Coca Cola factory."

"wWWHHHAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT??????????" Clod leaned out the window, "HOW U KNOW?"

"I came across their meetup, saw them talkin' about it, and..." Gristle smiled, showing Clod his Nerds Rope. There were pieces of black denim from Sarsaparilla's jeans on it; it was unmistakable.

Clod had no need for a moral quandary; if this kid was telling the truth, and he probably was, this would be the biggest massacre Sarsaparilla has ever committed. Hundreds of Clods would be affected, with tens of thousands more being denied Coca Cola. Clod knew he was one of the only people capable of stopping Sarsaparilla, and so, Clod narrowed his eyes, glared at Gristle, and said, "GET IN." Gristle did a flip over the big rig and into the passenger seat through the window, Clod released the parking brake, and they drove off, leaving the stacks of ladders in the dust.

Gristle had never ridden in a truck before, and stared out the window watching Ranchtown speed by him at 150 mph, before asking, "Where are we going?" Clod replied, "THE TRUCK STOP."

There was only one other trucker who had faced Sarsaparilla before, and almost succeeded. Clod knew he would be at that truck stop.


	5. Chapter 5

Asgore the Cement Dad was taking a break, sitting in his colossal cement truck, Bergentrückung, and drinking from a Two Liter of Coca Cola while watching the sunset. Every day around this time, Asgore would drive into Ranchtown to pick up a haul of cement. He arrived early today, and was waiting for the Clods mixing the cement to finish and organize themselves at Carl's Jr. After several massive swigs of Coca Cola, he put the Two Liter down, and Clod and Gristle were standing at the truck's door, staring up at him.

Clod was in awe, much like a child during Christmas meeting Santa Claus, while Gristle sucked down some sour gummy worms without any emotion. Asgore stuck his head out the window, smiled, and said, "Howdy, Clod. I've heard you've made quite the name for yourself," before glancing uncomfortably at Gristle who was now licking his fingers. Clod could not compose himself, and only slurred, "ASGORE..."

The Cement Dad stuck himself out further, and spoke softly, "What is it, Clod? I can't be here for long. Single-handedly running the cement industry is busy work..." The lump in Clod's throat only allowed him to get out, "ASGORE... HELP..." before Gristle finished consuming candy and said, "Sarsaparilla's gonna blow up the Coca Cola factory."

"What?!" Asgore's eyes widened, and he glanced at the Two Liter in his hand. His lips trembled a bit, and he looked down and sighed, "So it's finally come to this..." He gazed off to the side, "I don't have any reason to doubt what you're saying... He's in town, after all. Still..." Asgore swallowed, focused on Clod and Gristle, and said, "I want you two to get in. We have Clods to save."

Asgore scooted back to the middle of the cabin where the steering wheel was, Clod simply climbed in and took a seat to Asgore's left, and Gristle did an even more impressive flip over the cement truck and landed through the window on Asgore's right. Asgore released the parking brake, floored the gas, shifted into gear, and they were off, driving at 200 mph and rising as they went straight to the factory.

Gristle could not contain himself as usual, and was boucing in his seat when Asgore saw him in the corner of his eye and said, "On days like these, kids like you should be eating Mcdonald's and playing video games, not fighting mass murderers." Gristle said nothing and started to moan, so Asgore decided, "Why don't I tell a story about Sarsaparilla? You seem quite determined." Gristle liked the sound of that.

So Asgore began, "Sarsaparilla and I used to have a bit of a rivalry. I'm sure you both remember our World Famous Worldwide Televised Worldround Train vs. Truck Throwdowns."

Clod shouted, "YEAh!!!!!"

"Well, you only know what you saw on TV. The high speeds; the hauls. I'm assuming you never got to meet Sarsaparilla, even before he went berserk."

Clod replied, "nOoo..... bUT i kNOw hE WaS quiET."

"He was quiet. The man hardly said anything more than a sentence, even during interviews. But what he didn't say, you could read from his face. He always looked stressed, like something horrible was constantly on his mind." Asgore stopped to take a deep breath. "He didn't used to look like death itself, though."

Asgore continued to shift into further gears, and the Bergentrückung was speeding along at 430 mph.

"The last time I saw him in person was during our 1997 World Famous Worldwide Televised Worldround Train vs. Truck Throwdown. I remember that day well. He was hauling nothing but steel beams. Just after the Clods finished filling my truck with cement, I looked over at him in his engine and smiled. He smiled back." Asgore paused for a moment. "That was the only time I had ever seen him--"

Asgore clenched. A Clod had wandered onto the road in front of the truck. Before the Clod had even realized what had happened, Asgore had driven a perfect figure-eight around him to avoid killing him. For this, all Asgore had to say was, "Whoops."

"Anyways, like I was saying, he was a very reserved person. So the race began, and as usual I'm ahead of him, but what would always happen is that Clods would be on the road celebrating the race and I'd have to dodge them. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Clod replied, "huuUUUUHhh???????"

"Every single Clod I had to dodge cost me time on the race. That's why I lost all of the Throwdowns against Sarsaparilla. And I'm fine with that. I refuse to kill any more people than I already have. Yep, I haven't hurt a single soul with this truck, and I'm proud of it."

Clod stared into space, and said, "WOWWWWWW..."

"Meanwhile, Sarsaparilla couldn't do anything about what was on his tracks. You know as well as I do how maneuverable a truck is. Sarsaparilla couldn't dodge anyone, let alone turn unless the tracks turned. The only thing he could do was stop, and he wasn't going to do that during a race, or even a typical haul. When I'd see him at the finish line, I'd-" Asgore held back a gag, and continued, "I'd see his train coated in the remains of dozens of people."

Clod felt bad about it, but he didn't say anything. When he was a teenager he thought seeing Sarsaparilla's train adorned with the corpses of Clods on TV was awesome, and so did everyone around him. Watching a Clod get completely destroyed by his train, or better yet, a cameraman getting the last shot on Sarsaparilla's train before the video went black and all you heard was crunching was exhilarating every time. He didn't know as a teen how things would turn out.

"It was a few days after that race when Sarsaparilla made a public statement on how much he hated Clods and that he would never drive a train again. If you remember, that was the most he had ever spoken publicly. And the rest is history."

"It's rather sad," said Asgore after breaking the sound barrier. "The times you're allocated to make the hauls can be strict. Even on an ordinary day, he couldn't stop; otherwise, he would lose his reputation, and fail to be seen as the greatest train driver who ever lived. I'm certain at one point in his career, he just stopped caring about anyone he ended up killing." Asgore took another deep breath, and said, "I think train driving can break a man. It should be outlawed."

The story satisfied Gristle, at least for the moment. The Coca Cola factory was now in view. Asgore drove into the parking lot and went from Mach One to a full stop instantly. "We're finally here," he said. "I think we should go in there and try to evacuate as-"

A brilliant light enveloped the truck, and the overwhelmed trio covered their faces. The cement truck rumbled, and the windows threatened to break. When it was safe to do so Asgore put his arms down and looked, and he could not speak; only stare. What he saw was beyond words.

The Coca Cola factory was no more. A mushroom cloud stood above the burning ruins, and tornados of fire swirled, sweeping up red-hot debris. The few Clods who initially survived ran out, screaming, their bodies hopelessly engulfed in flames and drenched with boiling Coca Cola. They kept running, and screaming; they ran until their legs melted and gave out, then they were silent; unable to do anything but watch their lives be extinguished as their smoldering corpses reflexively curled into the fetal position.

Asgore lost all composure. He leaned into the dashboard, held his head in his hands, and sobbed into his palms. Gristle sunk into his seat, hyperventilating while unconsciously trying to make himself appear small. Clod couldn't hold himself back. He flung himself to the windshield, tears streaming down his face, and yelled, "nnnnnnNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Clod jumped out of the truck and sprinted into the ruins, frantically crying. He ran through the flames and smoke, and jumped over the burning Coca Cola lava. It did not matter to him; not even the fire tornados held him back. He had to find at least one survivor, but he found nothing but the purple and yellow liquified molten bodies of Clods.

He saw a hill of debris, and climbed it as fast as he could, hoping there would be someone still alive on the other side of it. From the top, he looked around at the destruction. There was nobody to save. Nothing but molten bodies dotted the smoking landscape. Giving up, he practically tumbled down the hill, and fell to his knees at the other side. He wailed and slammed his fists into the dirt, made wet by his tears. A gust of wind blew past him. He looked up, and peered through the clearing smoke.

And standing amidst the ruins was Sarsaparilla.

Clod didn't move. Sarsaparilla had his back facing Clod, and his legs held him high over the ruins as he walked through his creation, his devastation. Clod was still on his knees, his face now dry from the hot air, his tears ending as his anguish turned into fear. Sarsaparilla continued walking away from Clod, gripping his bags as if he was preparing to fight.

And then he stopped.

And then he turned around and looked straight at Clod.

Clod could not comprehend what he was seeing. Through that man's gaze, it was as if Clod was peering into the afterlife, prematurely experiencing a terror that his mortal mind was forbidden from understanding. Clod perceived nothing else in that moment but Sarsaparilla, the smoke surrounding being replaced by his grey hair flowing in the wind, and the crackling flames were now crinkling bags.

Sarsaparilla glared at Clod.

And then he turned and walked away, into a cloud of smoke that shrouded his image until he was gone.

Clod was still staring into that smoke, with all emotions drained from him, when Asgore and Gristle made it over the hill and met up with him. Asgore knew what Clod had seen; Clod's silence confirmed it, but Asgore needed to snap him out of it. Asgore said to him, "Clod, there might be someone underneath this hill of rubble. I need you to help me look."

Clod regained himself, and him and Asgore began removing chunks of concrete and rebar from the pile, with Gristle meagerly helping as well. They dug for a long time; the flames around them were dying, yet, they still couldn't find anyone inside the rubble. When Clod had given up, Asgore lifted a concrete boulder and revealed a red, vivid light glowing from within the pile.

It caught him by surprise, and he stopped working to gaze at the light, his inactivity punctuated by an, "Oh my." Clod felt a deep sense of existential fulfillment from the light, and disappeared into the pile to retrieve the source of it. The light grew brighter and brighter, until at last, Clod emerged, wielding a massive Two Liter of glowing, red Coca Cola.

Asgore lightly cupped his mouth, "So that's what my wife was hiding from me..." He put a hand on Clod's shoulder and explained, "That is the legendary Coca Cola Red. It is the apex Coke. It isn't like a regular Coke that's just an image of Toriel as a soda. I don't know for certain, but it's said that the Coca Cola Red contains a tiny fragment of her SOUL. It can call upon her powers to a far greater degree." This was a powerful Coca Cola indeed; the Two Liter was almost as long as Clod was tall.

Clod held the Two Liter like it was a sword. Asgore was right; he didn't feel just an emblematic energy like he did with Galvanized Pepsi; this was an incredible force, as if he had a direct spiritual connection to Toriel the Coca Cola Bear. Filled with energy, he pumped his fist in the air, twirled the Two Liter high above his head, and then rested it on his shoulder. This impressed Asgore so much that, despite it potentially being a way to reconcile with his ex-wife, he told Clod, "You should have it."

Now armed with a formidable weapon, Clod declared, "iT'S tIMe tO fIGHt sARSAparILLA's gANg. wE gOoo tO RANchtOWN. thEy STiLL BE THEre i knOW." It was decided. The trio returned to the Bergentrückung, and drove back to Ranchtown.


	6. Chapter 6

When the three arrived in Ranchtown, the first thing they did was search the back streets for any signs of Sarsaparilla's gang. The streets were quiet, and it seemed like everyone left in a hurry; doors to homes and cars were wide open, hoses that had been left on flooded front yards, and half-finished bottles of Coca Cola and Galvanized Pepsi sat by the curb. Asgore stopped and revved his diesel engine, a sound no Clod could ignore. 

Nobody came out of their homes. Clod investigated a house that had its door shut to see if anybody was inside. The only sign of life was the TV left on, displaying static. Asgore drove to Big Street next, hoping someone would be there to explain everyone's absence.

Big Street was depopulated. As far as they could see, there were no cars, no people, and certainly no Clods. The glittering signs for McDonald's and Walmart advertised to no one. At Carl's Jr Asgore found his cement waiting for him, in a legion of wheelbarrows assembled in rows, but with no Clods to pour it. He stopped the truck, not knowing what to do or make of the situation, until Clod suggested for him to check the one place they hadn't: the train station.

A train's horn blew as they approached the station, and immediately Asgore shifted into higher gears. With everything speeding by him, Asgore caught a glimpse of a train stopped at a station, and went from 1500 mph to 0 on a dime. The world no longer being a blur, the trio saw the train, and Asgore gasped. Thousands of Clods were crammed into freight cars, packed into groaning wads unable to escape and barely able to move; with arms, legs and spikey yellow hair poking out of the cars.

The train took off, and within seconds it was traveling at 400 mph. Asgore floored the gas pedal and moved up the gears; with breakneck speed he executed the repeating combinations of gear stick movements perfectly, shifting into the 80th gear almost instantly. It was clear from him being able to keep up with the train at a meager 900 mph, that whoever was driving it didn't have the finesse of Sarsaparilla. Clod wanted to leap from the truck into the train's engine to defeat the driver and stop the train, but Asgore would not let him, saying that it would be best to follow the train to wherever it led.

When the train came to a halt, Asgore swerved into a hill, and drove straight up it, where there was an excellent vantage point for examining the area. The train had passed through a tall fence covered in barbed wire, and stopped at what looked to be a hastily built terminal next to a gigantic World Class 7/11, rumored to contain a Prototype Pepsi so powerful that it resisted Galvanization. A Black Sarsaparilla stepped out of the engine, and held a McDonald’s bag high in the air. Black Sarsaparillas then swarmed forth from the 7/11 and ran to the freight cars.

There were far more of them than the trio had thought, easily numbering up to a hundred. They tossed and dragged the Clods out of the freight cars without care, and herded them in separate groups to a large, open area paved with asphalt. All Clods present there would then be told by Mr. Pibb over loudspeakers that the threat of resistance would be met with the promise of evisceration via McDonald’s bag. After that, the Black Sarsaparillas formed them into a line, forced to walk into the 7/11.

After most of the Clods were inside the building, a Black Sarsaparilla had turned to continue wrangling the Clods, but instead noticed a distinct Bergentrückung-shaped silhouette at the top of a hill. He called for the others, and freed a finger from the grip of his McDonald’s bag to point at the truck. Soon an army of Black Sarsaparillas came running towards the trio, bags in both hands, aiming to annihilate them.

Asgore had to act fast. He eyed Clod's Coca Cola Red, and Gristle cradling his Nerds Rope, and then decided to crash straight through the fence and into the encampment. Clod and Gristle were terribly confused and worried for their lives, but there was no time to argue as the Black Sarsaparilla swarm approached. Asgore stared dead into the horde, and shouted to both of them, "I'm going to lead them around with my truck! Get out and fight whoever comes at you!"

They had little choice. Clod and Gristle obliged, and jumped out, weapons in hand. Asgore drove right up to the Black Sarsaparillas, turned sharply, and kept at a meager pace of 20 mph. The bulk of the swarm turned also to chase after the truck, but a few did not and ran up to the both of them, coming for Gristle first.

The first wave of the onslaught began, and so did a MIDI of “Sugar” by System of a Down in a Final Fantasy 7 soundfont. Gristle drew his Nerds Rope, gritted his rotting teeth, and whipped wildly at the first Black Sarsaparilla who came near. It was an odd sensation that brought him no pleasure; smacking a black man with his Nerds Rope, but he had to do it to survive. The man resisted the initial whipping, and with a face of pure rage swung his McDonald’s bag behind his back to rev up for the Ultimate Slam. The bag came flying at Gristle, but stopped in midair; met by Clod's Coca Cola Red at a force so extreme that the Black Sarsaparilla's arm flew backwards and twisted behind him, bringing the rest of his torso twirling about like a corkscrew, scrambling organs and bones in a mockery of Sarsaparilla's signature attack as he was killed instantly.

Gristle realized he needed to increase his damage; these were no mere children he was hitting. He hopped onto his skateboard and skated in circles to gather speed, and waited for the next Black Sarsaparilla to come near before unleashing his Nerds Rope. It knocked the man unconscious with one hi-speed swing, after which Clod followed up with a Coca Cola Red Ground Pound To The Forehead, splattering brains, pieces of skull, and dyed grey straightened hair onto the asphalt.

The sheer strength of Clod's Coca Cola Red along with Gristle's Nerds Rope induced unconsciousness made a potent combination. Two Black Sarsaparillas rushed forwards and attempted to wedge themselves between Gristle and Clod to prevent them from using their newfound tactic, but they had failed. Gristle was far too maneuverable on his skateboard to be distant from Clod for long, and flanked the Black Sarsaparilla spinning towards Clod with his bags whirling around him, perfectly timing a whip of his Nerds Rope in between the spins. Although unconscious, he kept spinning, until Clod executed a spin of his own, gripping his Coca Cola Red with both hands and heaving it completely around himself for a ridiculous amount of damage that battered the Black Sarsaparilla right into the other one, his still spinning bags cleaving flesh from the both of them before they both fell into a bloody mess of meat and McDonald’s.

With the first few defeated, Clod took a moment to breathe, and Gristle took a moment to shove Jolly Ranchers into his mouth. The respite would not last long, however; Asgore let up with his truck, which loosen five Black Sarsaparillas from the horde chasing his truck, and once more they came running straight for Clod and Gristle.

The heat of the battle had gotten to Gristle, and his Limit had Broken. With a face of anxiety and anger, he sucked on a Jolly Rancher so hard that it formed a gravitational distortion that the Nerds Rope looped around, stretching the Nerds Rope so that it could whip all five of the gang members into instant unconsciousness. Clod then jumped into the air, his Coca Cola Red held high above his head, and struck down onto his enemies, him too also abusing Gristle’s spacetime anomaly to execute a Ground Pound that pulverized the Black Sarsaparillas into a Coca Cola Red colored paste.

Asgore looked over his shoulder to see the two of them doing victory poses, and released several more Black Sarsaparillas for them to defeat. The third wave appeared, and by this time, Clod and Gristle had perfected their technique. Their foes now stood zero chance. Wave after wave assaulted them, and each fell to the combined might of Coca Cola Red and Nerds Rope. The corpses of Black Sarsaparillas littered the pavement, forming several small piles, but yet even more of them approached, even having to resort to jumping over the mutilated bodies of their former comrades to do so.

Eventually, dozens of bodies surrounded the blood-coated Clod and the candy-coated Gristle. Asgore led the horde in such a way where a column of them followed behind his truck, seeing nothing but a cement mixer blurred by blind fury, and then he turned to reveal the massacre. What remained of the Black Sarsaparillas outside the 7/11 saw the absolute devastation of their gang, and they dropped their McDonald’s bags and ran for their lives, climbing over the tall barbed wire fence without care to injury.

With the Black Sarsaparillas now out of the way, the trio could then infiltrate the 7/11 and save the Clods inside. Asgore told Clod and Gristle that he was going to free the Clods still trapped in the freight cars, and Clod charged into the building, bottle ready.

The bright, near blinding lights inside were atypical for a 7/11, as he could attest from his old job. He covered his eyes, and that’s when he smelled something off. Blood and corn syrup, like a bad night at a Clod Bar. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he put his arm down, and froze. What he saw was absolutely repugnant, beyond any horrors he had seen yet.

Clods were tied to a mock train, and driven through an area filled with spinning metal poles with McDonald’s bags affixed to them. The bags tore the Clods limb from limb with no mercy; some of them even survived the first amputations and had to endure being slowly and dreadfully led into more bags. The dismembered pieces of Clods were then sprayed with Coca Cola and Galvanized Pepsi to insult their very existence, and the resulting mixture was a disgusting slurry that fizzed and gurgled audibly. Above it all, there was a hastily made sign that said ‘CLOD WASH’.

Clod looked over to his side, expecting Gristle to be there. He wasn’t. Gristle was nowhere to be seen. Cognizant that he alone had to face this monstrosity, he refused to allow the genocide to overwhelm him. Determined to save his people, Clod bolted through the 7/11, looking for a way to stop the Clod Wash. He found the Black Sarsaparilla responsible for operating it, and heaved right through him, leaving a spray of organs and blood on the wall. With a slam of his Coca Cola Red, he destroyed the controls, ending the Clod Wash once and for all.

Moving deeper into the 7/11, Clod ran down a hallway, his Coca Cola Red on his shoulder, desperately looking for any remaining Clods. In the hallway, he came across a giant metal door that was ominously silent on the other side. With a tense throat, he opened the door, and out came a stream of static blasting a dial-up sound. It was only when the room was empty, containing nothing but concrete walls that Clod realized he had freed all the women of Ranchtown, who had been heavily data compressed into that one room.

At the end of the hallway Clod heard a cacophony of many Clods screaming in agony, punctuated by a thunderous crinkle. He turned a corner, and the revulsion from what he saw made him pause in abject horror once more. A one-way glass window allowed Black Sarsaparillas to laugh as they pressed a button and watched tens of Clods, trapped in an isolated white room, be crushed at the same time by a single, gigantic McDonald’s bag. A wall opened, revealing the bag, which was then launched at obscene speeds into the Clods. The bag was then retracted, the floor lifted up, and the crumpled corpses of Clods would fall into a river of Coca Cola and Galvanized Pepsi, swept away to an unknown location. In black Coca Cola style font there was sprayed on a wall inside the death chamber, “Clod Crusher”.

With tears in his eyes and feeling zero remorse, he spun his bottle around himself to completely obliterate the Black Sarsaparillas with one swing. They didn’t even notice Clod until their bodies were scattered so finely across the room that they were momentarily omnipresent and omniscient regarding everything within it before they quickly expired.

The 7/11 was now empty, and the Black Sarsaparillas were defeated. Clod made sure he hadn’t missed a single surviving Clod, or a single soon-to-be-doomed Black Sarsaparilla lest the murder machines be activated again, but he had cleared the entire place out; even the Clods who were tied to the Clod Wash train had been seemingly freed. Clod headed outside behind the 7/11, and Asgore rolled up in his truck to him and said, “That should be the last of the Clods. Looks like I worked overtime today.”

After all that battling, the sun had set, and twilight loomed over the 7/11. Clod, still panting from the stress of ending a genocide, yelled at Asgore, “WHERE’D THAT KID GO?!?!?!?!?!??” to which Asgore replied, “You mean that kid with the Nerds Rope? I dunno.”

Just then, a series of tall light poles began turning on one by one, filling the area with a bright, white light. Above Asgore stood a crane, holding a foreboding dark mass. Clod felt a sickening chill, and then a truly titanic McDonald’s bag dropped to the ground, heading straight for Asgore. Sensing impending doom, Clod jumped back, but Asgore remained where he was, completely oblivious.

Asgore was pulverized. Only his head, shoulders, and a desperate arm stuck out from underneath the bag. His muscles shuddered from trying to push the weight off himself, but he soon gave up. Asgore resigned to his fate, and gave Clod a pathetic look, before wheezing out,

“Clod...“

“hhuuuhhhhhh????”

“I don’t think my body can handle this…”

“wwwhhAAAATTTTTT?!?!??!?!!??!”

“But... I want you to know, that despite the little time we spent together, you’ve impressed me far more than anyone I have ever met.”

Clod had nothing to say to that.

“Clod... please... take my big rig, and defeat Sarsaparilla...”

He fell to his knees.

Asgore shed a tear, and his body crumbled into dust. The last remnant of him, his soul, still existed to experience his horrible demise. It trembled, as if sobbing in extreme anguish, until it could no longer take it. Underneath the immense weight of a McDonald’s bag, Asgore’s soul shattered, and with that, Asgore the Cement Dad was no more.

The Coca Cola Red almost fell from Clod’s hand. He had no idea what to do.

...Until he heard Mr. Pibb behind him, taunting, “Bout’ time dat muthafucka’ died.”

Clod slowly stood up, strongly clenching his weapon held at his waist, and turned to face Mr. Pibb. Clod’s head was down, but his eyes looked up, gazing through Mr. Pibb, and Clod was shaking with rage so hard that bubbles formed inside his Coca Cola Red. From a distance, Mr. Pibb pointed a bag at Clod, extended a finger from his grip, and said, “Ya ain't gittin’ no Pepsi Blue.” And with that, a MIDI of “Cigaro” by System of a Down in a Final Fantasy 7 soundfont began playing over the illuminated battlefield.

Clod charged towards Mr. Pibb with a speed yet unseen from him, powered by a force which he did not understand. He slashed with his Coca Cola Red, but Mr. Pibb blocked the blow with both bags. Mr. Pibb then swung his arms out and brought them back together in a Super Fast Double Bag Super Slam, dodged by Clod with a lightning quick flip over Mr. Pibb’s head; Clod’s bottle grazing his lime green afro.

Mr. Pibb turned to swing a bag into Clod when he noticed kinky green hair falling from his head; his anger increased two-fold, and his bags roared like dragons. After winding up his right arm, he shifted towards Clod at bullet-like speeds, his feet sliding across the ground while heaving the bag like a windmill. With both hands lifting the Coca Cola Red, Clod’s bottle braced against the bag, creating a shockwave felt and heard for miles.

The force of that shockwave sent the two of them sliding on their feet away from each other. After they stopped sliding, they charged towards each other; Clod’s bottle dragging on the pavement and Mr. Pibb’s bags held behind his back. Mid-charge Mr. Pibb jumped into the air, spinning with his McDonald’s bags at an angle precisely calculated to sweep Clod away in perfectly portioned pieces, but Clod stabbed into Mr. Pibb’s whirlwind with his Coca Cola Red, the bottle being just long enough to penetrate past the bags and strike Mr. Pibb in the face.

The blow sent Mr. Pibb flying, and he landed on his back quite a distance away from Clod with only a Broken nose. His perfectly chiseled facial structure now ruined, the anger within him reached its Limit. He jumped to his feet, held his bags as if he was flexing his biceps, arched his back, and yelled as loud as he could.

Mr. Pibb’s afro and goatee erupted into bright green flames. A blood vessel burst in Mr. Pibb’s forehead as his eyes were overtaken by glowing green light. His muscles surged, and a lime green aura surrounded him as he grew a foot taller and shouted, “OOOOOOOO PIBB XTRA BABY!!!”

His transformation now complete, Pibb Xtra gave a deep laugh before his aura billowed and he teleported directly in front of Clod, towering over him. Clod had only a second to react, so he guarded with his bottle, using the blast generated from Pibb Xtra’s attack to propel himself away. 

That was a mistake. Pibb Xtra’s attacks were relentless; Clod had nowhere to escape from them, for even a moment. He could only step backwards as he deflected blow after blow, right McDonald's bag after left McDonald's bag. Soon, Pibb Xtra had Clod cornered and wide open for the signature attack. Pibb Xtra revved up, and began spinning into Clod.

Clod heroically held on to his bottle; the only thing between him and obliteration, defending himself from every single spin. Bubbles swelled within the Coca Cola Red, and sparks flew off the bottle’s plastic as the desperation of the battle reached its climax. The bottle vibrated, and Clod allowed the energy of Toriel the Coca Cola Bear to overtake him.

Clod’s Limit had Broken. The MIDI of “Cigaro” stopped, Toriel’s battle music “Heartache” started playing, and a fierce look shined from Clod’s eyes. A red and black manifestation of Toriel appeared above Clod, imbuing the Coca Cola Red with fire magic. Pibb Xtra recoiled in existential horror upon seeing the red Coca Cola colored flames, and cried out, “So is’ true... Dem sodas really DO gotta fragment of dem’s souls in em!” His monologue gave Clod a second to roll past him; now clutching his bags far more defensively than before.

Clod held the Coca Cola Red high into the air with both hands, and charged it up. The bottle ignited like a second sun, and he grinned; looking Pibb Xtra right in his glowing, lime green eyes, daring him to come near. His ego preventing him from walking away, Pibb Xtra teleported to Clod once more, and fell right into his trap.

With a cleave of his Coca Cola, Clod tore into Pibb Xtra’s afro, turning the lime green flames into a red hot inferno. Pibb Xtra flung his arm behind himself to counterattack, but the bag fell from his grasp when the intense pain from the fire overwhelmed him. He dropped the other bag and attempted to pat the flames out, desperate beyond anything to end the agony. Now was Clod’s chance to strike.

Summoning all his might, Clod swung savagely with his soda, sending Pibb Xtra’s jaw flying off; the razor sharp chin with its flamin’ hot goatee cutting down several light poles as it escaped Earth’s atmosphere. Pibb Xtra spun onto the ground and practically melted into a puddle, his bronze skin sizzling open and the flesh falling forth from his splintered bones like hamburger, begging to be pounded.

The recognizable remains of Pibb Xtra’s face vomited up lava formed from his liquefying body as Clod jumped into the air and fell back down to slam his soda into the smoldering stain. When everything else of him was tar, Pibb Xtra’s face spewed screams of utmost failure so extreme that the fabric of the universe trembled as the definition of failure threatened to change to meet the definition of Pibb Xtra, but the universe itself denied him, forever cementing that Pibb Xtra’s ultimate failure was the failure to change the definition of failure, resulting in a wail of ontological exasperation that came from beyond the universe, an aural gateway into the Void, until Clod delivered the killing blow and the now otherworldly green light in his eyes was extinguished and the soul stabbing sound silenced forever. Pibb Xtra finally perished; his empty eye sockets gazing eternally through the visage of the 7/11’s pavement.

Clod twirled the Coca Cola Red in the air, slung it over his shoulder, and took a deep breath. After the most hectic moment so far in his life, he needed a break. He took a seat on the hood of the Bergentrückung, and closed his eyes, reflecting over what had just happened. Unfortunately for him, his tranquility turned to anger when he heard the distinct sound of a skateboard rolling up to him, and there was Gristle.

He yelled at the boy, “WHERE WERE YOU?!?!??!?!??!” and fumed, until he saw what Gristle had been holding. The blue of Clod’s eyes shined deeper than ever before as he looked into the beautiful, the breathtaking; the Pepsi Blue. Gristle smiled at him, and said, “With this, we can defeat Sarsaparilla.” He handed the soda to Clod, and Clod inspected it; just as he had heard, there wasn’t a single sign of Galvanization printed on the label, and the spirit of Sans the Pepsi Skeleton floated in the bottle’s inner nectar.

Holding the Pepsi Blue in his right hand, and the Coca Cola Red in his left, Clod lifted the Pepsi Blue erect into the air; it shined a beautiful Blue 1 Brilliant Blue Food Coloring hue into the dim twilight. He looked back at Gristle, and shared a smile with him; perhaps, Clod thought, he had found a friend in this strange kid.

...But then Gristle looked up, and started shuddering and moaning. Confused, Clod wanted to say something, until he looked up as well, and a dagger of dread dove into his heart.

Sarsaparilla himself descended from the sky, his knees bent, McDonald's bags pressed together over his head, aiming right for Gristle.

Gristle didn’t move; he only moaned louder and louder until the moans became screams of ecstasy as his Limit Broke. His shuddering of near orgasmic bliss turned into oscillations of spacetime distortion, freezing him where he stood. In that moment, Gristle’s universe contained only himself and Sarsaparilla, but the pleasurable illusion of that universe shattered; at the moment of collision between Gristle and Sarsaparilla’s McDonald's bags, Gristle saw Sarsaparilla’s face, and through that man’s expression of contempt beyond words, a single word was yet present in Gristle’s mind: filth.

The bags absolutely annihilated Gristle. A deluge of what used to be him sprayed everywhere; a flood of blood, eviscerated organs, and candy-colored rainbow feces coated Sarsaparilla and Clod from head to toe, and yet, for Gristle, existence still continued. Time no longer was a concept for him; the eternity of that moment remained; forever experiencing being splattered by Sarsaparilla’s bags, feeling his body exploding across an infinite expanse behind the 7/11, unending retribution for everything he had done and everything he had the potential to do, with one word echoing forever; filth, filth, filth.

Clod readied his sodas, prepared for battle, yet Sarsaparilla’s position did not change; his bags continued to sway idly in his grasp. They locked eyes, the situation becoming tenser by the second, until at last, for the first time in years, Sarsaparilla spoke

“You’re not a Clod.”


	7. Chapter 7

Sarsaparilla's voice was breathy and deep, and what he said he uttered forcefully; tinged with a strong sense of stress, as if the weight of existence was too much for his soul to bear.

“HHHHHHHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH?!?!???!?!?!??!???!??!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!??!?!?!?!”

“I’ve seen you. No Clod could do what you have done.”

“WWWWWWWHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT?!??!?!!?!??!??!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!??!?!????!??!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!??!?!?!?!??!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?”

“You only look like a Clod. You were shaped into one, but the man underneath… No, you’re not a Clod.”

Clod attempted to find something to scream at Sarsaparilla, but he couldn’t; the word he was looking for was stuck in a mental mud. It was then he became aware that, in all his years of saying ‘huh’ and ‘what’, him nor any other Clod had ever used a third, different word after those two to express confusion and/or bewilderment. He trembled, until a word loosened itself, and with nothing holding it back, out came:

“wwwwwwwwwwoooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Sarsaparilla slightly smirked.

“You can’t help but prove what I thought to be true.”

Clod could do nothing but scream within himself. Something underneath his conscious mind, something primordial and forgotten, rose as a feeling that he could not explain. It grew in his throat; Clod wanted to vomit. The fact that someone as despicable and disgusting as Sarsaparilla could be privy to something this deep inside him, and be true in his judgment, made the situation far worse. He strained to deny it, but his denial only fueled the stress bearing down on him.

Then Sarsaparilla struck him with the hardest question he had ever been asked:

“Do you remember when you weren’t a Clod?”

Clod jolted, and his vision faded away. Everything surrounding him: the bottles in his hands, the crinkling of Sarsaparilla’s bags, the smell of Gristle’s blood coating his entire body; disappeared. Within the darkness of his unconscious mind there was nothing but Sarsaparilla, gazing into Clod’s essence.

A train’s horn blew as Sarsaparilla raised a hand. A light shined forth from his palm, and grew brighter; the horn blew again, and reverberated throughout the void.  
It was coming. Clod felt his soul shake; he tried to brace for it, but nothing could be done. Sarsaparilla’s train, with its horn blaring and its lights penetrating, overtook Clod, and he remembered who he once was.

-

Clod saw himself looking back at him in a bathroom mirror. His appearance was a blur, but he saw that he had black hair, and what might have been brown eyes. He stood a lot shorter, too; how old was I here? Clod wondered.

He turned away from the mirror, and stepped out of the bathroom. Clod then realized where he was: his old parent's house. A pain resurfaced in his mind, like a scabbed over cut breaking open, and all he could do was watch as he walked towards the kitchen table where his eight Clod brothers and his Clod father were seated. They all stared at him as he sat down, and his father had his arms crossed.

Clod's mother came into the room, and slammed a huge tub of not Nesquik, but Nasquik on to the table. Clod remembered why: him and his brothers were being punished for something, but he couldn't remember what. His mother unveiled the Punishment Spoon, and forced a huge spoonful of the black, gritty Nasquik into each of his brothers' mouths. Clod watched each of them suffer.

"UUUUAAAAAHHHHH GROSS!!!!!!!!!!!"

"YUCK!!!! BURNING TIRE!!!!"

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

At last, it was Clod's turn. Accepting his punishment, he opened wide for the inevitable Nasquik. When his mother put the spoon in to his mouth, he expected it to be one of the worst things he'd ever taste, but to him, it didn't even taste that bad. Sure, it was disgusting, but it wasn't an unstoppable crying and gagging disgusting. He didn't complain about it, or even show much of a reaction as he chewed and swallowed the soot-like powder.

An unforgettable expression of hate overtook his brothers' grimaces of disgust, and his parents were shaking with rage. Clod's father jumped out of his seat, grabbed the tub of Nasquik, and threw its entire contents into Clod's face. Clod, blinded by and choking on the powder, was then beaten and chased by his father until he managed to escape to his bedroom, where he coughed up Nasquik until he passed out on his bunk bed. His sleep was ruined throughout the night by his brothers punching him, kicking him, and finding even more Nasquik in the house to dump on him.

That night, in a final, peaceful sleep he had before the morning, he dreamt of himself single-handedly mowing down a massive field of weeds, beaming with pride after a job well done.

Clod's vision shifted to memories of him at school, where every day he suffered the agony of not being a Clod. Surrounded by Clod children on the bus, he couldn't sit either at the front or in the cool back of the bus; he was always stuck in the boring middle, in the spot where there wasn't even a window to look out of. He had no interest in the repetitive school work designed to build Clods up for actual work, nor did he have any interest in schoolyard games like Human Shovel or Jenga Without Removing the Blocks Ever. In fact, from seeing everything around him, he couldn't find any interests at all, and as such had zero friends. During class he would do the bare minimum of work and then try to sleep for the rest of the day, and during recess he'd hide from Clod bullies.

The only respite from this was when he went home, where he would either watch TV alone or hide in the family bathroom until he had to come out. In that bathroom he would sit on the toilet in silence, reflecting on his life and who he was. He'd blame himself for his suffering, and soon began to hate who he was. He desperately wanted himself to go away, at any price; he had to belong, he had to have worth. He had to become a Clod.

That is when he started to feel a burning sensation behind his eyes. Rubbing them didn't make it go away; it only grew worse and worse. He pushed into his temples with his palms trying to end the pain, but stopped when he felt hair loosening under his fingertips. 

A pleasing wave of helplessness enveloped Clod; he hunched over, with his eyes bulging, straining out of their sockets, as his lips forcefully peeled back to reveal a skull-like smile. His eyelids gaped wide open, then his eyeballs plopped out, dangling on his cheeks, holding on only by the optical nerve, until with a pinch the nerve snapped. The last thing he saw was his hair sloughing off his head and falling on the ground. He fell off the toilet, unconscious in a pile of his own hair and eyeballs.

He awoke feeling a warm, dull haze, and with a grin on his face, got up to look in the mirror. Before him stood at last: himself as a Clod, with the iconic spiky yellow hair and blue eyes that fit perfectly in their sockets. A celebratory and involuntary, "huuuuuuhhhh?!!??!!!?!" escaped his lips.

Clod couldn't believe that transforming could be that easy, or that rewarding; being a Clod filled him with a kind of energy that he couldn't even imagine before. He wanted to stack ladders. He wanted to mix cement. He even wanted to stack boxes of Kraft Singles like his father, and his body screamed for Galvanized Pepsi. Clod shook with glee as he put his head down and began his first work: scooping up the brown eyes and black hair from the bathroom floor and flushing them down the toilet.

When he left that bathroom, he finally felt a sense of pride in who he was. He could finally interact with his family, and they greeted him as they greeted one another. He could finally share something in common with his classmates, and enjoy their presence. He could finally know that he had a guaranteed future in whatever menial labor was available. 

He, at last, felt welcome.

This was the way things were meant to be; the way it always was.

-

Tears were dripping down Clod's face as the memories returned to a now closer depth of his mind. He gasped for air, and the taste of Gristle's blood returned him to reality. Clod was on his knees, his bottles still in his grasp, before Sarsaparilla, who stood with an unflinching expression several yards away, his hair blowing in the wind. 

He began to speak:

“You fight, but you don't know why. It is because it is in your nature to fight. Clods don't fight. Not like you." Sarsaparilla squinted, "They die to me."

Clod sputtered, "WHYYYYY... WHYYY DO YOU KILL???"

"Because it is my mission to do so."

Something about that statement felt very off to Clod. He couldn't pinpoint what it was, but it had a strong sense of futility.

"Your life has been a lie. Everything that you thought mattered was worthless. Yet you have potential. Join me, and you will learn of your true self."

An energy tensed within Clod, and he grasped it with his entire being. It was something that he had obscured at times, yet something that he always had, and often used. It was something that scared him a bit; just as it had saved his life in the battles before, it had also caused him suffering from those around him. It was something that had diminished since he was a child, and yet was still powerful.

And it would resist Sarsaparilla.

"No..." Clod's voice did not slur.

There was nothing for Sarsaparilla to gain from killing Clods. He had no end to seek, no ultimate goal in that; killing Clods was the goal in of itself. Nothing would come out of Sarsaparilla in a world without Clods; the world would always need people to perform menial tasks, and without them, someone like Sarsaparilla would have never been able to rise to the top. Clods laid down his train tracks, and, hypocrite that he was; Clods prepared the McDonald's bags held with murderous intent in his own hands.

Clod stood up.

"NO!" Clod almost foamed at the mouth.

"I WON'T JOIN YOUUUUU SARSAPARILLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Despite everything, the real man within him could only scream like an animal through the Clod mask, but the intent was there. Clod hyperventilated.

Sarsaparilla only closed his eyes, "Very well then."

Clod was ready with his bottles out at his sides, and indignation beaming in his blue eyes. He put his head down, but not quite as down as before.

... but Sarsaparilla simply looked at him, and said, “I’m not going to fight you. No, I have a better way of dealing with you.”

"HUUUUUUHHHHHHHHH??????????"

"You're going to meet me at the train station downtown for a World Famous Worldwide Televised Worldround Train vs. Truck Throwdown." A slight heave of his bags punctuated his challenge.

"WHHHHAAAAATTTTT???????"

"That's right. And when every Clod on this planet sees you lose to me, the chaos that will result will be glorious. They won't even need me to eliminate them."

Clod didn't think he had much of a choice. He knew how these races went, and with this opportunity, he would essentially have Sarsaparilla cornered. If he failed to accept, Sarsaparilla would likely escape from him, or kill him in combat; Clod was still exhausted from defeating the Black Sarsaparillas, after all. And no matter what, if he failed, then Sarsaparilla would still be at large, and Sarsaparilla could create a new gang even more powerful than before.

Clod lowered his bottles, "I AcCEPT THE rACEEE!!!!!" A gut clenching vibration of finality shook the atmosphere around them.

"Tomorrow at sunset." Sarsaparilla lowered his head and focused on Clod, "See you there." And with that, his gangling legs quickly carried him away.

After Sarsaparilla left, Clod got into the Bergentrückung, and, despite being unable to see anything in the cabin except for the speedometer due to it being dark out, managed to drive it back to the Ranchtown truck stop at over 300 mph. The first thing he did there was get a fresh set of clothes and wash all the blood off himself, then he took some much need R&R interspersed with Galvanized Pepsi.


	8. Chapter 8

After a short nap, Clod awoke in the cabin of the most powerful Big Rig ever constructed, completely rejuvenated and determined to win the race. He perused over the truck’s controls in near absolute darkness; the build of the truck didn’t allow him to drive near a light and be able to see much of what was inside, and there were zero flashlights anywhere. Clod had to master the Bergentrückung just like Asgore did: by sheer talent in the dark.

The only thing he did manage to see that he missed the first few times around was a number on the dashboard stating, “3500”. That’s probably the number of cylinders, Clod thought. Typically, the number of gears could be determined by dividing the number of cylinders by ten, but in a truck like this, Clod had no certain way of knowing without going up to the highest gear to find out for himself.

All he needed to learn was the shift pattern, and the highest gear. Clod started the truck, waited for it to warm up, released the brake, clutched the gear stick, and began rising up the gears with the same motions that Asgore executed. Last time he had only gotten up to the 15th gear; 300 mph was nothing, but he knew he’d have to go much, much faster than that to even stand a chance against Sarsaparilla.

Already going at 120 mph, he drove out of the truck stop onto a long stretch of highway road with nobody on it, illuminated only by the moon and the headlights of the Bergentrückung. Clod floored the gas pedal, and shifted into higher gears; intuitively sensing the next movement he needed to do, and then locking it forever into his memory.

Once Clod reached the 35th gear, he moved the gear stick to reset it back to the beginning, and repeated the gear shift pattern all over again, soon breaking the speed of sound. Clod continued to shift, his trucker arm cranking with breakneck speeds, outmatched only by the escalating speed of the truck. With the entire country flying by him, he gripped the shaking stick with the might of a True Trucker, and after performing 9 Shift Resets, attempted to do yet another.

The gearshift shifted no more. That was it. 350 gears. 7000 mph. Clod did an Illegal U-turn right then and there on the freeway, and the force of the truck turning was so fierce that lighting spawned and shot down the road, traveling as fast as the truck until it reached a small town and collided with a McDonald’s, causing a massive explosion that woke up Papyrus in a cold sweat screaming.

Clod drove back to the truck stop in under a minute, went straight into the parking lot, and decelerated from near Mach Ten to zero on a dime. The air clenched, and a shockwave burst around the Bergentrückung, sending the other trucks flying, not to be seen again until their smoldering wrecks landed on Big Street hours later when the sun rose, waking up the entirety of Ranchtown in announcement of the race.

He was ready.

-

The sun was setting in the sky, and the Ranchtown train station had never seen a busier day. A colossal commotion of concerned Clods circled Sarsaparilla’s cabin, with a space between them and it in case Sarsaparilla stepped out. Camera crews had already began recording from all angles, and helicopters swarmed overhead. They knew that Asgore and the Black Sarsaparillas were dead, but no one knew why Sarsaparilla was there, in his train for the first time in years. They watched him like a herd of animals staring down a predator; afraid to die.

...Until they saw the Bergentrückung with Clod behind the wheel slowly passing through the crowd, and stopping right next to Sarsaparilla’s train.

And everyone knew what was about to happen.

The Clods cheered with their entire being. Camera crews and reporters struggled to position themselves to record the inevitable race, and executive producers were rushed in from across the globe. Even Toriel was there; she originally had come to Ranchtown to assist those whose loved ones had died in the Coca Cola Factory explosion, and then shortly after she showed up at the race, Sans appeared, somehow. With the help of a few Clods, they began putting up advertisements for Coca Cola and Galvanized Pepsi all around the train station, not in competition, but in unity for all Clods.

Within minutes, the Clods of Ranchtown together made a makeshift stadium to house all of Ranchtown as they watched the race, complete with a gigantic TV for after Sarsaparilla and Clod take off. A starting line was drawn, and on two giant opposing billboards at the sides of the racers stood Toriel and Sans, preparing to countdown. Clod viewed in amazement the magnitude and speed of the work being done. 

Then he looked over at Sarsaparilla in his engine.

Sarsaparilla was staring into Clod with his head twisted around like an owl. An empty look of conviction penetrated from his unblinking eyes. Clod looked away for a moment, somewhat stunned and in disbelief of what he saw, until a feeling within him tensed, like a demon tempting him, and demanded that he lock eyes with Sarsaparilla. Clod did it, out of compulsion, and what he saw was impossible to forget.

Sarsaparilla smiled at Clod. It started as a mild, toothy smirk, that slowly grew wider and wider until his lips strained like they were going to split open. Then his teeth sharpened and enlarged, his lips distorting and the grin turning into a grimace that enveloped most of his face, as the sockets of his skull stretched to accommodate engorging eyeballs that lacked any sort of humanity within their pupils. When it could go no further, Clod sensed a growl that only his soul could hear, that was not emitted from Sarsaparilla to him, but instead was a persistent tone that enveloped Sarsaparilla that he allowed Clod to hear.

Clod looked away with a profoundly blank expression that reflected the feeling of pure Unbeing projected onto him. He had no idea if what he saw was even real; the crowd was seemingly unaware, because if they had seen it, like Clod they would be silent in a terror that could not be put into words, as it formed from seeing something that was not meant to exist, and has zero reference to anything we currently know and say.

Sans’ voice over a loudspeaker broke that terror as he announced that the countdown would begin soon. In custom with the race’s rules, Clod and Sarsaparilla were not allowed to accelerate their engines before the race had begun. Contrary to other races, however, there was nothing being hauled. No freight followed Sarsaparilla’s train, and no cement swirled within the Bergentrückung. The only weight they were hauling was of the match itself.

“the world famous worldwide televised worldround train vs. truck throwdown will begin in 5…”

Clod regained confidence and gripped his steering wheel.

“4…”

The absolutely awful face on Sarsaparilla disappeared as he focused on the race.

“3…”

Clod’s chest threatened to burst; the feeling invigorated him.

“2…”

Sarsaparilla snarled.

“1…”

This was it.

“here we go.”

Clod slammed on his gas pedal and immediately began shifting gears with a precision and dexterity unseen from any truck driver before. At the same time Sarsaparilla released his brake, and with one flick of his wrist spun his train’s Power Wheel like a disc in an open PlayStation. They both shot out of the stadium at 200 mph and quickly rising, to the cheer of thousands of Clods.

Not even two minutes passed before they broke the sound barrier and reached the next town over. There Clod saw what Asgore had spoken about: dozens of Clods stood on the road and the train tracks for a suicidal view of the Race of the Century. Sarsaparilla’s expertise in Train Driving had amplified despite the years; he held the lead, and behind him, Clod could only watch with a strained grip of his gearshift.

Sarsaparilla stared into the Clods, grit his teeth, and turned his Power Wheel. Blood, bonedust, and Galvanized Pepsi sprayed all over his train, and through this offense to Sans the Pepsi Skeleton, Sarsaparilla felt his sins crawling down his back, so he formed the sins into jets that propelled him faster into the Clods. A purple jumpsuit filled with organs flew onto Clod’s windshield; he wiped it off almost instantly, but when he did, he saw that his truck was seconds away from hitting a Clod.

Clod refused to slow down, and channeling his inner power, swerved around the Clod perfectly missing him by millimeters. But that wasn’t the end of it; a crowd further down the road mindlessly blocked his way. Clod took a deep breath, and, at 90 degree angles, snaked through the unflinching crowd at 1200 mph without a single death.

Unfortunately for Clod, Sarsaparilla still held the lead, with a deluge of dead Clods behind him. Unfettered, he followed Sarsaparilla into the mountains at 2000 mph, keeping him in sight, until Sarsaparilla drove into a tunnel. With the howls and crunching of the damned rising in pitch from the tunnel, Clod scanned his environment looking for anything to help close the gap.

He’d only seen it on TV once, but he knew it would work. Clod slammed into the guard rails and grinded on them, using them as guides that accelerated his truck. Helicopters swarmed the side of the mountain to record the flames that flew off the red hot rails. Then, at 3200 mph, Clod left the railing, causing it all to coil into a massive wad behind him that exploded, surging him forwards at 5000 mph without having to be at the 250th gear.

In his side mirror Clod saw Sarsaparilla’s train blast out of the tunnel in an equal explosion of cameras and Clods. With the mountains passed, the racers drove into Oklahoma; its flat fields testing any driver’s gearshifting ability. Neck and neck with The Wheat brushing against their vehicles, Clod used the straight roadway to great advantage and soon retook the lead.

But then Sarsaparilla somehow turned off his tracks and into The Wheat.

Clod looked around for any sight of him, but Sarsaparilla’s train couldn’t be seen within the height of The Wheat. Even with his Mind’s Eye, Clod could not find Sarsaparilla. Not knowing what to make of it, Clod continued accelerating as if an imaginary Sarsaparilla was still behind him, until a railroad crossing on the path ahead challenged him.

He did know, however, that Sarsaparilla’s goal was to win the race, so he wouldn’t dare try to crash his train into him. And with that thought, Sarsaparilla train blazed before him, driving backwards; Clod got a glimpse of Sarsaparilla leaning out and looking behind himself. Thinking Sarsaparilla knew a shortcut, Clod chased after him through a hole left in The Wheat; where there were no tracks, The Wheat had formed into rails.

Clod quickly caught up to Sarsaparilla, but then, without any sort of hitch, the Bergentrückung’s gears suddenly inverted, sending Clod driving backwards at 4400 mph. With True Trucker power Clod immediately cracked out a Negative Illegal U-turn, shooting lightning that set The Wheat on fire in his reversed hot pursuit of Sarsaparilla.

The chase continued until Clod’s Big Rig was mere inches from Sarsaparilla’s engine; at that point, Sarsaparilla sharply turned, and Clod flew out of The Wheat into Sarsaparilla’s trap: an abandoned Western Town filled with identical buildings even more confusing than The Wheat for Clod to be lost in for ages.

Clod bolted through the town for all of ten seconds. Then, on the road stood a single long-lost Clod wearing a cowboy hat with his quickdraw ready, staring down the barrel of a cement truck coming at him at 5500 mph backwards. He fired a single bullet that warped into nothingness as Clod spun a figure-eight around him with his truck, creating a shockwave around the Clod that spared him but destroyed every single building and old-timey billboard in town, and sent the helicopters recording overhead spiraling out of control and out of Earth’s orbit. Debris rained around Clod until a dent in The Wheat left by Sarsaparilla pointed him back into the race, where The Wheat reversed both their gears again, returning their vehicles to normal.

With The Wheat and Oklahoma behind them, night had fallen due to the change in time zones as they neared the East Coast. Clod assumed that they would drive north up into the Arctic, like every race before with Asgore, and pass by Santa’s Workshop as they entered Europe, but Sarsaparilla had one final, unthinkable trick up his sleeve.

Disregarding all prior World Famous Worldwide Televised Worldround Train vs. Truck Throwdowns, Sarsaparilla’s train picked itself up on one side, and slammed into the ground. The resulting earthquake liquefied the dirt around him into a growing wave that carried Sarsaparilla into the Atlantic Ocean, where it grew even larger into a mile high tsunami that Sarsaparilla surfed towards the finish line, while a 200 foot tall wave of dirt headed straight for Clod.

A blast of superhuman inspiration struck Clod; a force that enabled him immediate apprehension of the laws of the universe, and he knew just what to do. Clod turned to drive straight up a mountain at a near 90 degree angle, and after flying off the peak like a ramp, he slammed on his brakes. The shockwave that burst forth from the Bergentrückung multiplied his speed and sent him streaking towards the ocean at 15000 mph, all the while he shifted back into gear, preparing for his inevitable landfall.

Sarsaparilla sailed the pitch black abyssal waters in his train; a maelstrom of pure chthonic energy interbred with the light of the full moon to ignite his path of destruction. At the same time, Clod skipped across the Atlantic Ocean like a rock with nothing but the spirit of Poseidon himself guiding him; a primordial urge forcing him east, an unstoppable power giving him limitless energy, delivered in the form of the water’s surface tension billowing to grant him even greater speeds.

The helicopters that had tracked them could no longer keep up as they lacked the divine fullness of the Pleroma that encapsulated Clod and Sarsaparilla. Hundreds of miles apart across a dark expanse, Clod’s third eye opened to create a direct psychical connection with Sarsaparilla that enabled Clod to continuously remote view Sarsaparilla’s location, before Sarsaparilla opened his own third eye, tracing the signal back to Clod to maintain an unbreakable perception of him as well.

One last great bounce off the waters propelled Clod thousands of feet into the air, gliding over the Sahara Desert so fast that his speedometer lost count and threatened to break. The forces of the universe drove Clod into Egypt where with a heaven-piercing “DINK” he nailed an ineffable Khemetic Shred off the Great Pyramid that would make Gristle proud, banging the Earth’s leyline system like a funny bone and causing a neurological reflex to spread throughout the planet, spinning the globe as if ten hours had passed in merely two seconds. The Shred channeled energy into the Bergentrückung that further escalated its literally blinding speed as it rocketed over Asia.

Meanwhile Sarsaparilla surfing his now 300 foot high supersonic tsunami overflowed the coast of Europe, causing apocalyptic destruction rivaling the Great Flood itself, ending the lives of an unfathomable amount of Clods. Perfectly timing it, he then sunk into the wave, with a superheated cavitation bubble forming around the train protecting him, until he emerged in a shower of steam riding red hot railroad tracks.

A hellish landscape visible from space grew behind Sarsaparilla’s engine as his Mach 30 speeds incinerated the air and turned the sky red. The rails he passed over broke and flew off in shards of sentient lava that sought out Clods to impale before they themselves cooled and perished. What few cameramen who had a shot of the utter devastation were ordered to not record, lest the situation could escalate into a Worldwide Riot.

Clod sailed over the Middle East with a massive contrail following him, while Sarsaparilla tore an infernal streak throughout Russia, dividing the country along a line where no life could grow ever again. Every Indian Clod celebrated Clod as he glided over them, and even the megacity-sized Purple Jumpsuit Factory in China ceased production to hail him.

Sarsaparilla soon reached the End of Russia, and saw that his tracks had also met a dead end. He raised a hand, and with a forceful, upward grip, the land telepathically curved to form a ramp that flung Sarsaparilla across the sea east. Met by Clod mid-air and with their vehicles burning like shooting stars, they streaked into the last remnant of the Long Lost Sunken Island Utopia of Japan: Mt. Fuji.

They crashed with a bang, and Clod lost consciousness.


End file.
